Page 58 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Then what the hell is this?"
I meet her eyes. "This is me attempting to prevent you from making a decision you will regret when the reality of my life becomes apparent."
She crosses the area between us in three strides, and I tense instinctively because she is angry and unpredictable and I do not know what she is about to do. She stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin, and nods her head back to glare up at me.
"Let me tell you something about my reality, Olog." Her voice is low and shaking. "My reality is a family that spent the entire weekend making passive-aggressive comments about my weight and my job and my relationship status. My reality is an ex-boyfriend who cheated on me and then showed up at this wedding with his new girlfriend specifically to make me feel like garbage. My reality is smiling through rehearsal dinners and pretending I'm fine while my aunt asks me why I'm still single and my father implies I'm a disappointment."
I open my mouth.
She keeps going.
"And then you showed up. And you didn't just pretend to care about me for the cameras. You actually defended me. You actually protected me. You looked my father in the eye and told him I was worth more than money. You got down on one knee in a parking lot and offered me a knife because that's how Orcs propose and you wanted me to know you were serious."
Her eyes are bright now, but she is not crying. She is furious.
"So don't you dare stand there in your perfect suit and tell me I can't handle your life. Don't you dare try to protect mefrom yourself because you think I'm too fragile or too rich or too human to deal with the fact that you work dangerous jobs and carry weapons. For twenty-eight years I’ve dealt with people who think I need to be managed and controlled and protected from making my own decisions. I don't need that from you."
I am silent.
She is breathing hard, her hands clenched at her sides, and I can see the pulse jumping in her throat and the way her whole body is vibrating with anger and hurt and something else I cannot quite name.
"I know what I'm choosing," she says. "I'm choosing you. The real you. The one who works security and carries knives and has scars and gets shot at. I'm choosing the man who canceled his contract because he couldn't take money for defending his mate. I'm choosing all of it. So if you're standing here trying to talk me out of it because you think I don't understand what I'm getting into, you can stop. I understand perfectly."
I look down at her.
She looks up at me.
The morning light is stronger now, casting her face in sharp relief, and I can see every detail of her expression, every line of anger and determination and fear that I am about to walk away from her.
I have faced armed assailants with more composure than this.
"The agency terminated my employment," I say quietly. "I no longer have a primary income source."
"So get another job."
"I have scars?—"
"I've seen them. I like them."
"I work irregular hours in dangerous environments?—"
"Then I'll learn to worry. I'm good at worrying. I've been practicing my whole life."
"Your family?—"
"Can go to hell." Her voice is flat. "It doesn’t bother me what my family thinks. I care what you think. And right now, what I think is that you're trying to protect me from something I don't need protection from."
I am silent.
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of jasmine perfume still clinging to her skin, and she reaches up and grabs the lapels of my jacket with both hands.
"Tell me the truth," she says. "Are you trying to leave because you don't want me, or because you think I don't want you?"
The answer should be simple.
It is not.
I look down at her hands on my jacket, small and human and entirely certain, and I feel the question settle into the area between my ribs where the certainty of last night used to be.
